


One Mississippi

by MenaceAnon



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, assholes in peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 06:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: For the Tumblr prompt: Jamilton, Caught in a storm.They’re a full half mile from the cabin when the dark, low-bellied clouds reach a decision.





	One Mississippi

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings at the end!

They’re a full half mile from the cabin when the dark, low-bellied clouds reach a decision. One gust of wind flattens Alex’s clothes against his front and bounces Jefferson’s hair around his cheeks, but the next drags cold water into their faces. Their yelps are swallowed by a flash of light and the enormous round bellow of thunder. Alexander’s stomach pinches.

Waves of sound roll unobstructed across the wide green field that stretches out in every direction. So much for that shortcut to beat the rain. 

Jefferson says, “Shit,” and then they’re running. 

There’s a low rise and a slope still between them and the clot of trees on the horizon — they’re running deeper into the storm, but the shelter of the lodge is there, under the swaying boughs of the forest. They put their heads down and charge recklessly through the grass. 

Dead ahead the sky blinks white around a spear of lightning. Alex thinks, _One Mississippi, two—_

 _Boom._

Much too close. _Stuck in a field during a lightning storm._

Alex hits a bare patch of earth near the top of the low rise, and the mud gives too fast underfoot. His ankle turns the wrong way and he pitches right. Shoulder-first, he collides with Jefferson. They hit the ground and topple in a tangle over the crest of the hill and down the slope. The ground wraps around them. The sky crashes white. Jefferson makes a sound of pain, and then they’re rolling to a stop. 

When they shove to their knees at the bottom of the hill, Jefferson is clutching one eye. Rain pours around the corners of Alex’s mouth as he pants for air, and his ponytail is in a sopping lump across the back of his neck. 

There’s another flash of lightning, and the sound is more of a crack, without the soft edges of distance. Jefferson leaps to his feet, and Alex staggers up after him. His ankle twinges, but the tree line is close, and adrenaline propels him forward with only a brief wobble. 

The rain eases slightly as they vault out of the field and under the leafy canopy. Alex dashes water out of his eyes. They’re not on the path, but the lodge is visible between the dark, hatched boles of the trees. The way there is significantly more treacherous than the field was, though, and he sees Jefferson slow. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” Alex yells over his shoulder. Jefferson shakes his head, but quirks a look at the sky and comes pelting after Alex. Loam gives under their feet as they stagger over roots and scrape recklessly past a patch of woody brambles. Yards from the lodge, Jefferson slimes over a patch of moss and crashes into the scaly silver trunk of an oak tree. He curses, brushing flaked bark off his palms as he finds his footing. 

Alex brakes his own forward momentum by the expedient method of slamming into the front door of the lodge. 

He turns the knob, twisting back to call for Jefferson one last time — and the world whites out. Vast concussive sound flattens over everything, a plosive kick in the hollow of Alex’s chest. It seems too immense a thing to fit into the space of an instant, but before he can react, it’s done, and he’s blinking against the forked white off-center afterimage. 

There’s a smoking gash in the scaly silver trunk of the oak tree, popping and whistling quietly. Alex’s heart slams into his throat like cold iron, and the world warps black at the edges. Ozone and woodsmoke saturate the air and Jefferson is lying on the ground at Alex’s feet, on his back— 

And then pushing himself up on his elbows and gaping back at the destruction, chest heaving, eyes perfectly round. 

Alex staggers forward and scoops his hands under Jefferson’s armpits. He flinches hard, but allows Alex to help pull him upright. Then he doesn’t move immediately, so Alex grabs his hand and drags him inside, slamming the door shut behind them. 

The overwhelming noise of the storm mutes to a low rush. Alex and Thomas stand in the entry with their heads bowed, dripping on the wood floor and gasping for breath. 

Thunder rumbles outside, and Alex looks Thomas over in the diffuse gray light from the cabin’s few windows. Mud is smeared on his clothes, as well as bits of gray bark, and there’s a thorny branch caught in the hem of his shirt. His normally springy curls hang heavy under the weight of the water, and there’s a gash at the corner of his brow. His eyes are absolutely enormous, and they’re fixed blindly down on the floor. He’s trembling hard. Alex is, too. 

Their hands are still slotted together. 

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Jefferson breathes, eventually, and his grip tightens. He looks Alex up and down. “You look like shit.” 

Alex, still panting, starts to laugh. 

Jefferson shakes his head. Then his eye lands on their clasped hands, and he yanks away. He licks his lips and says, “I’m getting out of these clothes.” 

Alex waves him off, looks down at his own muddy, sopping clothing, and takes a step toward the light switch. He shifts his weight – and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose as his ankle lights up with spiky pain. He doesn’t so much walk to the wall as hop a few times and then manage a controlled fall in its direction. When he flips the light switch nothing happens. 

Power’s out. 

_Fantastic._

Hobbling into the living area, he collapses into the single armchair and rolls up his pant leg, then kneads his fingers gently into the narrow tendon of his ankle. Probably just a bad twist. He can’t remember if he’s supposed to apply ice or heat, but without electricity he can’t plug in a heating pad, and opening the freezer just to take out some ice is wasteful. 

He sighs, and drops his head back. Closes his eyes. 

Jefferson’s voice floats in from the hall, firmer than it was minutes ago but still a little uneven around the edges. “We clearly beat Washington home. I’d say he’s waiting out the storm in town, but if we’re being honest he’s probably still at the damn farmer’s market where we left him, obliviously kissing babies like he’s the president or something.” 

Alex snorts and opens his eyes, just in time to watch Jefferson round the corner and let out a horrified noise. 

He sits up. “What? What?” 

“You are sopping wet!” 

Alex stares at him. “You’re more observant than usual.” 

“You are sitting in that armchair, sopping wet.” Jefferson’s eyes are still too wide, but he seems galvanized by this opportunity to yell at Alexander. “Get up, you cave man.” 

Alex rolls his eyes, but purses his lips, embarrassed. He hadn’t been thinking. “I needed to look at my ankle.” 

“You couldn’t have put on some dry clothes first?” 

He opens his mouth to respond, but pauses when he notices that Jefferson himself is in sweatpants and a tank top and looks like a normal human being for once, instead of a clown who wandered into a tailor shop. He has a towel draped over his head. 

Jefferson sees him staring, and crosses his arms over his chest. Which, if Alex hadn’t know from countless arguments with the man that this was a defensive posture, he would have guessed was a deliberate move to show off the muscled topography of his arms, and Jesus Christ. Who knew? 

Alex licks his lips, and looks away. He pushes himself out of the chair, making a face as his wet clothes stick and chafe. 

“I could really go for a hot shower right now.” 

Jefferson drags the towel forward over his eyes and starts squeezing it gently around handfuls of his hair. “If Washington comes home and finds out I let you electrocute yourself _inside_ the cabin, after we both just narrowly avoided electrocuting ourselves _outside_ the cabin, I will absolutely never hear the end of it.” 

“I believe that, in context, the wistful nature of my statement was perfectly clear. But sure, be a prick about it.” He rolls his shoulders, and walks down the hall to the room he has claimed for the duration of Washington’s “weekend escape,” carefully concealing his limp until he’s out of sight. 

The lodge is… fine, if you like being trapped in a forest with a bunch of deer and no wifi, which Alexander does not. There’s a small town only a few miles away, close enough for comfort and far enough to give the illusion of what Washington calls solitude and what Alexander calls desolation. 

The town is where Alexander split off from Washington earlier today, choosing — in an act of true desperation — to walk back to the cabin in favor of spending another minute pretending to be nice to Thomas Jefferson for Washington’s benefit. Except that he and Jefferson had not coordinated, and it occurred that Jefferson had already proposed his own exit to Washington only a few minutes earlier. Washington, who was almost certainly not fooled and who at heart was still a wily old General, handily outmaneuvered them both. 

“That’s perfect, Alexander,” he’d said, “you and Thomas can walk back together.” Then he’d smiled congenially and walked away. 

Alex ravages his hair with a towel, staring at the bruise that’s darkening on his bicep below the sleeve of his t-shirt, and thinks, _An all around success._

When he returns to the living room, Jefferson is kneeling in front of the fireplace, tending to a little tongue of flame caught on some kindling. He glances over his shoulder, and then does a double-take as Alex limps past. 

“Oh, you really did fuck up your ankle.” 

The ache is worsening rapidly, to the point that it’s now beyond hiding, and Alexander is desperate enough that on the way from his room he detoured to the kitchen to retrieve some ice from the freezer. He rubs his fingers together, feeling guilty, and hopes the power comes back on soon. There’s food in there that could go bad. 

He ignores Jefferson, and collapses down on the couch — which, to accommodate the limited space of the lodge, is really more of a love seat. It’s deep, but not very wide. That’s fine for his purposes. He props his ankle on an armrest, lays the ziplock bag of ice on top of it, and flops back with a sigh. 

Trees sway wildly outside the windows, a few narrow branches scrabbling at the panes. The thunder has moved away, but the rain isn’t letting up, and water smears in wobbly sheets down the glass. 

It’s been a long time since Alex was frightened by a storm. He’d seen the worst, after all, as a boy on Nevis, seen the sky turn the color of an old bruise, seen wind like an immense hand, plucking trees like flowers. After that, your average blow seemed to be small change. But when he blinks there’s still a faint white squiggly afterimage against the dark of his eyelids, and he thinks of the scorched black gash in the oak tree, smoking charcoal, and he starts to wonder what he would have done if Jefferson had still been standing there when the lightning hit. Provided the man hadn’t died immediately, getting a cell phone signal out here is mostly a matter of finding an accommodating god to pray to. What’s more, the nearest hospital is so far away that he would certainly have had to be medevaced, and who could fly a helicopter in this weather? 

And so for the first time in a long time, Alex thinks of that morning on Nevis, after the hurricane blew itself out: a world reshaped, exposed remnants of peoples’ homes, and the bloated body he’d found in an alley. He’d stared at the dead man, and known with his whole being that he had died scared and alone, and that there was nothing Alex could do to make it better. Like poking at a blister, Alex imagines the corpse with Jefferson’s face. 

“Oh no, absolutely not.” 

He blinks, and the ghoulish daydream vanishes, replaced with Thomas Jefferson’s living face, looming over him and clouded with exasperation. 

“Move. Go sit in the wet chair. I built this fire, I get to sit in front of it.” 

Shaken, Alex sits up. He doesn’t stand, though, and after a beat he holds the bag of ice out toward Jefferson. “Your eye. We can’t open the freezer again, so you can have it for a while.” 

Jefferson’s brow scrunches, and he examines the ziplock bag, full of ice and wrapped in a hand towel, and then Alex’s face. His left eye, with the cut at the corner, is officially blackening, shining up like dead flesh— 

“Shove over,” Jefferson says, grabbing the ice, and Alex scooches to one side of the couch. Jefferson flops down beside him, and raises his hand to press the bag to his eye. The couch is small enough that their thighs press together, and Alex can see thin bramble-scratches in lines up Jefferson’s forearm. He’s warm with life, where they touch, and the sensation loosens the knot in Alex’s breast. “Along with everything else,” Jefferson says, “I’m pretty sure you elbowed me in the face after you tackled me off the side of that hill.” 

Which is enough concentrated bullshit to nettle Alex out of his stupor. “Tackled you! That’s when I twisted my ankle and fell. It had nothing to do with you.” 

“Not at first, but you still took me down with you, didn’t you. Disaster does not have to be a team sport, for future reference. My whole damn body hurts.” And then he tips his head back with a quiet moan, throat bared, eyes closed. His skin looks especially warm in the firelight, and Alexander’s imagination swerves in a new and yet equally alarming direction. 

“Anyway, if you’ve got the ice then I definitely need to elevate my ankle,” he says hastily and swivels in place, so that they’re no longer pressed so close together. His legs swing up over Jefferson’s lap, ankles on the armrest. The man squawks. 

“You are the reason there aren’t two chairs! You do not have sprawling privileges!” 

“Well then I ought to have the ice! My ankle is killing me.” 

“Absolutely not, I’m not done with it yet.” 

“That ice is on loan, and I want it back.” 

“Just go get another bag.” 

“I can barely walk, and even if I could, we shouldn’t open the freezer a second time.” 

“Sweet merciful baby Jesus, y'd argue with a fence post,” Jefferson mutters, annoyed enough to sound southern, and then he shoves Alex’s legs off his lap, pushes to his feet, and in a crude falsetto, mutters, “‘I can barely walk,’” as he stumps out of the room. Alexander has never been more conscious of the fact that Thomas Jefferson is a man with a lot of siblings. 

He listens for the sound of the freezer opening, prepared to yell, but he only hears a drawer and some shuffling, and then Jefferson returns with two plastic bags, full of ice and wrapped in dishtowels, each half the size of the original. 

He rounds the couch, and his eyes narrow. Alex has put his legs back up on the couch. But Jefferson doesn’t react the way Alex anticipated, and he realizes, in a horrified flash, that he miscalculated the man’s mood. Without hesitating, Jefferson reaches out and crams Alexander’s body into the back of the deep seat, and as Alex throws his arms up in alarm, Jefferson flops down quasi-on-top-of-him. He shoves a bag of ice under Alex’s ankle, then hooks one knee over the arm rest, and lets his other heel rest on the floor. His elbow jams into Alex’s stomach, and his hair tickles under Alex’s chin, smelling faintly of coconut oil and rain. The bag of ice is balanced carefully over his eye, and then he’s settled, warm and heavy, along Alex’s side. 

“Are you satisfied, you petulant asshole?” he says. 

Alex is still holding his arms over his head like he’s being robbed. He peers down at Jefferson, and then, like a reckless fool, lowers them slowly. His left arm winds up snug with the back of the couch, but his right drapes over Jefferson’s shoulder, his hand landing on the other man’s chest, over his heart. 

He’s close enough to know he doesn’t imagine the hitch in Jefferson’s breathing, and when he looks down, Jefferson’s eyes are rolled up to peer back at him. It’s hard to be certain from this angle, but Alex thinks they look a little wide. 

Alex says, “Never. But I’ll allow it because you almost died and I know you’re all shaken up about it.” And as Jefferson gargles with dismay, Alex snuggles deeper into the couch, and coincidentally into Jefferson, and closes his eyes. 

At length, Jefferson sighs, shifts incrementally closer, and relaxes against him. 

The storm is still charging furiously against the walls of their little cabin, like a bad memory at the borders of thought, trying to get in. The worst did not happen, though. Jefferson is alive and warm and – heavy, and his hair tickles and he smells good, none of which Alex needed to know. Just the strong, even bump of his heart under Alexander’s hand would have done. 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: heroes in peril, and a very brief but not entirely watered-down mention of a dead body.


End file.
